


Good Boy

by AnnetheCatDetective



Series: On the Story [1]
Category: Transylvania 6-5000
Genre: M/M, Puppy Play, Well... kind of, nonsexual kink, they're just cute, unwittingly stumbling into kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-11
Updated: 2018-10-11
Packaged: 2019-07-29 17:21:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16268858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnetheCatDetective/pseuds/AnnetheCatDetective
Summary: Jack has always taken care of Gil. He's not sure what these new feelings are, but as long as he can keep taking care of Gil... does it really matter?





	Good Boy

**Author's Note:**

> There may be more of this, honestly.
> 
> Once again I've created a tag. Sorry, tag wranglers.

    “What’s this? What’ve you got for me?” Jack puts a hand out, before Gil’s had the chance to say anything-- Gil is, in fact, barely through the door before he’s putting the envelope into Jack’s hand. “Good boy.”

 

    “Really?”

 

    Jack pauses, looking up at him. “Well, I mean-- depending on what we have here. Why, uh, why wouldn’t you be?”

 

    There’s a desperate neediness to him, he’s on edge, leaning forward… it’s a little like the look he gets when he’s eager for parental approval, but it’s…

 

    More, somehow.

 

    And with the weight of approval on Jack.

 

    He finds he wants to give it, with that look.

 

    The leads are ridiculous, but they were always going to be ridiculous. That’s the nature of the job they’re in, the fact that he hates the paper he works for isn’t Gil’s fault. The fact that he has a job that allows him to eat and pay rent, he has Gil to thank for, he knows he’d have lost his job a hundred times over if it wasn’t for Gil, and maybe if it wasn’t for Gil, he wouldn’t care so much, but he’d still need to eat. There are places he’d rather work, if they’d have him. They might not have him, though, they’re not exactly fighting for him. And Gil… he makes things worthwhile, damn him.

 

    He glances at the door, weighing things out. Someone would still be able to peer through the window, but what were the odds? He’s not sure why they even have a window, their shared office is basically a broom cupboard with desks and chairs crammed into it. Maybe so Gil’s father could assure himself that they were working when they were there, or so that nobody tried to shove a bunch of brooms and supplies in on top of them, so it looked like a proper office.

 

    “Close the door.” He says, with a jerk of the head.

 

    “Jack?”

 

    “Gil, close the door, come here.”

 

    Gil does. Gil always does, Gil just generally always does what Jack tells him to. He’s sweet like that, trusting. Usually it’s the right call, anyway, and when it’s not, he doesn’t hold it against Jack.

 

    “Come here.” Jack pats his thigh, motions for Gil to sit, and Gil looks towards the window-- there’s nowhere in an office this size to really _hide_ \-- but he perches on Jack’s lap just the same.

 

    “Hi.” He grins, goofy and nervous and absolutely the sweetest sight Jack can imagine. “I’m here.”

 

    “Good boy.” Jack winds an arm around his waist, other hand resting on his thigh, warm through his slacks. Gil always feels warm… it’s what first made sharing a bed with him such an attractive prospect. Well, among other things, but Jack had been lying to himself about wanting those other things. It was a purely practical decision the first few times, and then it was habit, and then it didn’t really matter how many lies he told himself.

 

    “You didn’t even check the leads.”

 

    “Well… I mean, you _got_ the leads, ran all over digging things up, they’re probably crap, but they’re always crap. So maybe it’s a little unfair to, uh… to say it all depends on how good they are, instead of on how much work you did.”

 

    “Okay, who are you, and what have you done with Jack?” Gil laughs.

 

    “You don’t want the old me back. He was a jerk.” Jack leans in, tucking his head against Gil’s neck. “Just let me be better to you.”

 

    “O-okay. I mean, I don’t think you were a _jerk_!”

 

    “Mm.”

 

    “But I mean if you want to be-- oh, if you want to… _Boy_.”

 

    “Relax… relax with me just for a minute.”

 

    “I don’t know how! I haven’t been in a lap since I was ten. I hit a growth spurt, I was five feet tall, I was too big to be photographed with Santa Claus.”

 

    “... Ten seems a little old for Santa Claus even if you’re not five feet tall.”

 

    “Well what do you think is a normal age to outgrow Santa Claus?”

 

    “I wouldn’t know, my parents never pretended we had a magical home invader every December.”

 

    “Then how can you say ten sounds too old? Anyway, my parents were the ones who insisted on the pictures every year. I found the whole ordeal a little terrifying. The crowds, the screaming children, the elves, the idea of supernatural judgment being passed upon my soul…”

 

    “Upon your soul? And I already thought the whole thing was unsettling, I’ve never heard your soul was involved.”

 

    “Well, I mean, I don’t think he actually judges your soul, but it feels that way when you’re a kid.”

 

    Jack sighs. “Would you be more comfortable if you weren’t in my lap?”

 

    “Yes.”

 

    “Okay.” He kisses Gil’s neck once before letting him go, and Gil slides to the floor-- for a moment he’s worried he should have held onto him a little longer, he can’t believe he _dropped_ him. But Gil seems fine, actually seems like he’s down there on purpose, and okay, it’s not like Jack’s never imagined having Gil under his desk for a little quick something on a slow day, but he’s pretty sure that even if Gil fit down there, he’d hit his head, he’d probably give himself a concussion…

 

    Besides, they have that window.

 

    Gil, however, just rests his folded arms across Jack’s knees, and rests his chin on his arms, and gazes up adoringly from the floor, and plays Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on Jack’s heartstrings.

 

    He feels _transfixed_. He’s always had something of a weakness, sure… he wouldn’t be where he is in life if he didn’t have a weakness for Gil, for the way he’s always blushing, for those big, wide baby blues, the way he smiles, how he always seems hopeful for something, and how openly happy he is when he gets it. But he’s always looking across at him. He’s never looking down at him from this particular angle unless one very specific thing is about to happen, and it’s _not_ , not here, not now, but…

 

    “Good boy…” Jack whispers, threading his fingers through Gil’s hair. Pushing it back gently from his forehead, feeling the silk slide of it… it’s so _fine_ , delicate, and really… really, Gil’s sort of delicate, for a guy his size. Not his frame, but him, in some ineffable way.

 

    Jack watches the way his pupils dilate, the way his mouth goes slightly slack as he leans into the touch. There’s a soft whimper in the back of his throat for it. For the touch or for the words, or for everything. The urge to do anything to get more of that reaction is strong. The urge to just… take Gil home and put him in bed and…

 

    Jack doesn’t know. Normally the urge to take Gil home and put him in bed ends a certain way, just the way that normally having Gil on his knees goes a certain way, but mostly he just wants to pet at him. Praise him. Be alone with him where they won’t be bothered.

 

    “What do you want for dinner tonight? I’ll make you anything.” He smiles gently-- everything about the moment feels gentle, as he carefully preens Gil’s hair back into place, quick little touches of the fingertips, softer smoothing strokes.

 

    “All this for a few leads on some crap?”

 

    He shakes his head. “All this because you’re _my_ \-- because you’re mine. And I’ve got to take care of you, don’t I?”

 

    “Well, gosh, I mean, I like it.” Gil grins up at him, dizzy, adoring. Shifts his arms so that he’s holding onto Jack’s legs, chin propped directly on one knee. “Yours, Jack, really?”

 

    “Really.”

 

    And Gil’s always been his. Gil made that perfectly clear just about immediately. Jack hasn’t always been very good at keeping him, at caring for him, but Gil’s always been his. And Jack’s always wanted, and always been afraid, and always pushed for some slight separation between them, and he’s never been able to put any real distance in place. He’d tell Gil to give him space only to reach for him not two minutes later-- and thank God Gil never did give him much space to begin with, always knew what Jack needed even when he asked for the opposite.

 

    Not that he pushed, Gil’s never pushed for more than Jack could give, never pushed for half of what he deserves, but he never goes far. All the times Jack has tried for distance, Gil has never gone too far to reach for again.

 

    His beautiful boy… The only man Jack’s ever met who’s been big and gawky and anxious enough that Jack has felt downright smooth in comparison, has felt the right size in his own body when they’re side by side… He is smooth, now, or smooth enough, but he wouldn’t have grown into himself if he hadn’t met Gil when he did. Gil let him become who he is, and so much of it came from needing to be, so that he could take care of them both. Has he changed Gil as much? Gil seems so much like he was when they first met, he hasn’t lost an ounce of his earnest naivete…

 

    But he cringes less and relaxes more, too. Maybe Jack can take credit for that.

 

    He’s never had a word for what Gil is, beyond _his_. For so long he was afraid of labels, exclusivity, it didn’t matter how much his heart was spoken for, if he didn’t use the right words, maybe it wouldn’t be real. And then…

 

    Then came the moment where he couldn’t stand the thought of it not being, when he couldn’t lie to himself anymore, and he’s been happier since, but he still doesn’t know what words to use. He doesn’t know what to call Gil, what are they? Two people who have decided they belong together, but what’s the right word for that? Boyfriend doesn’t sound serious enough, he can’t take himself seriously when he imagines saying lover.

 

    And Gil… Gil just sighs happily, that goofy grin in place, and leans into his touch, and what can he do? What can he do but keep on petting at him, the backs of his fingers stroking over a cheek, other hand cupping the back of his head, rubbing gently…

 

    “Yours.” Gil sighs, and there’s a devotion in it that Jack has yet to earn, he’s sure, but he doesn’t care if he deserves it yet or not, he only cares that he has it, that he keeps getting it.

 

    “You’re just my Gil, an ordinary guy, haven’t got a thing that I can brag about…” He croons, grinning just about as goofily right back at him, at the look of mock indignation spoiled by too much smiling.  “And yet to see you on my knee… I’ve run out of words, so I’ll fix this part later. I can’t explain, it’s surely not your brain, that makes me thrill… but I love you, because you’re wonderful, ‘cause you’re just my Gil.”

 

    “Is that as complimentary as it gets?” Gil pouts, though the smile comes right back when Jack traces a thumb over his lip.

 

    “I’ve come up with less complimentary songs-- anyway, how many are there that rhyme? If you keep sticking that lip out someone’s going to bite it.”

 

    The door swings open before he can make good on that threat, and if he didn’t have his hand wrapped around the back of Gil’s head, Gil would have hit it against the corner of the desk leaping back from him.

 

    “What are you doing on the floor?” Gil’s father asks, the sight interrupting whatever tirade he was about to unleash on them.

 

    “Fell.” Gil lies-- and Gil’s not much of a liar, ever, but he falls over enough that it’s believable.

 

    “No concussion.” Jack nods, reluctantly removing his hand.

 

    “I don’t pay you to check him for concussions, I pay you to write stories.”

 

    “I think I’d make more if you did.”

 

    “Well if you’re not working on a story--”

 

    “I married Bigfoot!” Gil blurts out.

 

    “... What? Are you sure about that no concussions?”

 

    He fumbles for the envelope he’d brought in, waving it aloft, still on his knees. “We’ve got a story, we’ve got a Bigfoot story. Can we go? I think this one’s really promising!”

 

    “Fine, but I want a story. I want to see Bigfoot in a wedding veil!”

 

    “I think Bigfoot is the groom, but--”

 

    “But journalistic integrity being what it is around here…” Jack grumbles.

 

    “We might actually find him this time.”

 

    “We’re not going to find Bigfoot.”

 

    “Well he’s elusive.”

 

    “He doesn’t _exist_.”

 

    “We’ll see.” Gil says, so placidly convinced that Jack hasn’t got the heart to argue with him now. He’s sure he will again before they’re done with this nonsense, but for now…

 

    For now, there are travel arrangements to be made, and then they’re on a flight before they can get back to what they were doing. Which, to be fair, Jack isn’t… completely sure what they were doing. Just that he’d liked it. A lot.

 

    By the time they reach their hotel, Jack is exhausted, and Gil’s downright dead on his feet. So out of it that Jack has to hand-feed him a few french fries just to make sure he has something on his stomach, before stashing the remainders of a half-eaten dinner for later.

   

    “One more, come on. I got you an entire sandwich you’re not even going to touch?” He urges.

 

    “Sorry, Jack.” Gil yawns, hand curling around Jack’s wrist. He doesn’t stop him, he doesn’t direct him, he just hangs onto him and allows the feeding of one more bite, and he’s a little glazed over with sleep, but he has that adoring look again, and it does the same confusing thing to Jack’s heart and his stomach, even though he’s not on the floor this time. He’s looked adoringly at him plenty of times, why this should be so special…

 

    He licks the salt off of Jack’s fingers, and it makes him shiver. It’s not even sexy, not really. It could be, but it isn’t… it’s sleepy and it’s sweet and it’s soft. And if not sexy, it ought to be disgusting, but it definitely isn’t that.

 

    “Good boy.” Jack murmurs, and Gil drops sloppy half-asleep kisses to his hand in lieu of words.

 

    He’s pretty sure Gil could fall asleep with Jack’s hand half in his mouth, if he let him. He wipes the saliva off on his shirt, before undressing them both. He wrestles Gil into his pajama bottoms and leaves the top behind, shepherds him through brushing his teeth and taking a leak before tucking him into bed. It’s not the first time, though usually he just lets Gil pass out in his underwear, teeth unbrushed, to get up for the bathroom at three in the morning if that’s what has to happen. Gil tends to do the same, if Jack’s the one who’s too exhausted to take care of himself, and that’s probably for the best. Somehow, tonight, he hadn’t been able to stand the idea of not doing everything he could to take care of him.

 

    When he tucks himself in at last, Gil rolls to him with a sigh, snuggling down tight against Jack’s bare chest.

 

    “Sweet dreams, honey.” Jack says, hand sliding through Gil’s hair. He gets a little snuffle in response, a weak squeeze, Gil sleep-heavy against him.

 

\---/-/---

 

    Traveling east to west means jet lag kicking their collective ass, but they manage to get themselves roused and presentable, taking their rental car out to visit the Bride of Bigfoot.

 

    He lets Gil handle interviewing her, and she talks without reserve. The power of a true believer-- a lot of people opened up to Gil, who wouldn’t give Jack the time of day. Jack can take the recordings and polish the interview up later, make it sound a little more objective, cut out some of the gee-golly-wow gushing Gil does.

 

    “You know Bigfoot isn’t real, right?” Jack says, as they pile back into the car afterwards. A tiny little thing that their limbs don’t quite fit comfortably into, Jack has to slide the driver’s seat all the way back just to manage it.

 

    “I know she’s delusional and is not married to Bigfoot, but I do not know that Bigfoot isn’t real.” Gil shakes his head. “Anything could be in the woods, we don’t know. There’s a lot of unexplored territory.”

 

    “I think it’s pretty well explored at this point.”

 

    “Agree to disagree.” He shrugs.

 

    Jack sighs, but he leaves it. He finds a coffee shop, installs Gil at the counter and orders two cups of coffee and a couple of donuts. Adds cream and sugar until one cup is the way he takes it and the other the way Gil does. When he gets back to Gil, he’s deep in a conversation with a young woman in a leather jacket. Peroxide blonde, she’s a tiny thing next to them, but she has a sharpness. Still, in spite of her clear amusement at Gil’s questions about Bigfoot, she’s nice enough to him, so Jack doesn’t shoo her off, just takes the stool at Gil’s other side and gives him his coffee.

 

    “Here, drink. You could use the caffeine. Are you bothering this poor girl?”

 

    “He’s not bothering me, Mister.” She laughs. “We’re just talking about Bigfoot.”

 

    “Oh, of course, of course, you’re just talking about Bigfoot. Drink your coffee.”

 

    “Yes, dear.” Gil says, giving him a look which is a little more playful than adoring. Jack cuffs his shoulder gently, and Gil just grins at him. He takes a sip, humming gratefully. He can’t be surprised to find it’s the way he likes, Jack has fixed half his cups of coffee for years, but he’s still grateful.

 

    Jack tucks an errant lock of hair behind Gil’s ear, the sort of thing he doesn’t think about doing in public. “Good boy.”

 

    This time, the look he gets is achingly adoring, all but breathless, and Jack was going to push the plate with Gil’s maple bar across the counter to him, but he doesn’t. He tears a bite off and holds it out, and there’s not even a moment of hesitation or a quiver of doubt, Gil just leans forward to take it.

 

    He doesn’t lick Jack’s fingers in public, but he still twists at his heartstrings. He still looks on hungrily when Jack licks his own, and even when Jack scoots the plate a little closer, he makes no move to take it.

 

    Public. They are in public, and maybe you could playfully feed somebody a single bite of something, but not the whole thing, not in public. He touches Gil in public all the time, sure, but there has to be a line, this should be that line. But Gil looks so achingly wanting, and so he tears off another bite.

 

    Well, it’s not like they’ll ever be back here again. It’s not like they’re doing anything dirty! It’s only a maple bar, and it’s not like he’s holding out the whole thing for Gil to perform some indecent display on, either, it’s just carefully torn-off bites, carefully taken, Gil’s lips barely brushing Jack’s fingertips.

 

    “Oh, so that’s what you guys are, like, into?” The girl asks. Jack had managed to forget about her in such short order…

 

    “What?” Gil blinks, turning back to her, and Jack thinks he might have also forgotten, forgotten there were any other people in the world but them.

 

    “It’s okay, I don’t judge, we’re all into something, right?” She smiles.

 

    “What?” He repeats.

 

    “Like, you like being his dog, that’s cute. I get it.”

 

    Gil whips his head around to look at Jack, wide-eyed and affronted. “What?”

 

    “Well, you, uh… you are cute.” Jack shrugs. He’s still processing the rest, he might need a lot of time to process the rest, but he can’t let it leave him slack-jawed. “You are mine.”

 

    The old Jack would have protested immediately, would have quibbled over what Gil even was to him. He doesn’t know what to do with himself now that he’s not doing that, but he doesn’t want to go back to that denial. He can’t deny Gil again, hurt him like that again.

 

    “Well-- yeah, I-- I’m _yours_ , but I’m not a _dog_.”

 

    Jack touches Gil’s cheek, with his non-sticky hand, considering. Gil… with his unwavering adoration and loyalty, his devotion, with the way he is, the way… the way his hair flops around when he moves excitedly and the way he gets when he believes in a story, and the way he had sat on the floor with his chin on Jack’s knee… licked his fingers while half-asleep.

 

    “You don’t like being my good boy?” He asks, and he’s not sure if he’s teasing.

 

    “I didn’t say _that_!” Gil yelps, yelps! Gil’s hand shoots out, gripping Jack’s knee.

 

    “Okay.” His hand slides up from cheek to hair, smoothing it back. “So you’re mine. Um, you’re my… boy, boyfriend, my good boy, partner, what-- whatever you want.”

 

    “I’m not a dog.”

 

    “You’re a golden retriever. You’re a baby. You’re a baby golden retriever.” Jack shakes his head. “No, honey, I know, of course you’re not.”

 

    “I’m _not_.” Gil pouts, but when Jack holds up another bite of maple bar, he still doesn’t hesitate to lean in and take it. “Mm-- boyfriend?”

 

    “If it’s not too juvenile.” Jack shrugs.

 

    “I like that, ‘boyfriend’.” Gil shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s too juvenile.”

 

    Jack supposes he can’t be surprised by that. But as much as he’d thought he wouldn’t be able to take it seriously before, once they’ve said it out loud, it doesn’t feel so silly.

 

    “Boyfriend.” Jack whispers. “Okay.”

 

    Gil’s smile goes all goofy again, and Jack’s heart skips a beat. Then Gil glances down at the remaining couple bites of maple bar, and Jack laughs.

 

    “You sure you weren’t a puppy in a previous life, at least?” Jack asks, tearing off another bite.

 

    “You believe in past lives now?” Gil’s eyes go wide. “Because maybe I was, Jack! I’ve been thinking, we should do a past life regression, it’s in the leads I gave you. What if one of us got something interesting? We could write about it!”

 

    “I like you in this life.” He snorts. “But maybe.”


End file.
